


Watch Out For Those Cupids

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cupid - Freeform, Cupid!Patrick, M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, Sort Of, Valentine's Day, i tried okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:51:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Patrick is a Cupid with one goal-- to earn his Golden Wings.Pete is a human standing in the way of that.One arrow. Two boys.Can you guess where this is going?





	Watch Out For Those Cupids

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS SO LONG I'M SORRY
> 
> Also, it's barely edited so I apologize for any errors.
> 
> This was written for Be My (Peterick) Valentine and thank you so much for letting me be part of it! Hey, readers, check out the collection! I assure you- you won't be disappointed :)
> 
> Anyway, on to this fic, I hope it makes sense!

Patrick’s beginning to wonder if those wings he was promised are really going to be worth it.

_It,_ as of right now, being the bubblegum-popping, ponytail-wearing college girl sitting at a bus stop with some half-constructed pop song blaring from her earbuds so loudly Patrick’s half-tempted to break a magic arrow over her head.

Not, of course, that he has a magic arrow. That term was retired a bit ago. Management’s been promoting the phrase Cupid’s Aid instead— those mothers had been relentless about hiding all terms of violence and Patrick still hasn’t forgiven them— and it’s currently sitting snugly in the pocket of his fashionable buttoned-up shirt, ready to fire up with magic in a moment’s notice.

Patrick reaches to stroke the arrow—  _ aid _ , he reprimands himself as if he will ever feel used to the newer term— to reassure himself it’s still there. On his first mission, he made the rookie mistake of forgetting the aid at the office, leaving him to improvise with a forced meet-cute scenario. The quick-thinking had earned him higher points than his peers but actual interaction with his targets is never his preferred route.

Which is probably why his supervisor— Vicky, a nice woman with a stern smile— has been set on sending him to every uncomfortable, intimate setting she can find. 

Like a bus.

Patrick sighs, his fingers brushing against the familiar shape of the arrow. The girl looks up at him with a raised eyebrow which, okay, isn’t fair because no one should be aware of anything if their music is that loud. He fights back the urge to sneer and merely looks away, dropping his hand back down to the side with a huff.

“Agent Stump, we felt some disturbance in the aural atmosphere. Everything alright with the target?” Vicky’s voice fizzles to life in the earbud tucked a bit too deeply in Patrick’s ear. He flinches his head to the side, sharp enough that his hat— the agency’s administered fedora— tilts precariously. Patrick reaches to adjust it and then, after a quick narrow-eyed glance at the girl, presses a finger onto the button of the earbud.

“All good, Asher, just a brief contact. All visual, no tactile,” he reports, his voice low in case there are any unexpected listeners. So far, only the girl should be around but one can never be too safe.

“Noted. Saporta has eyes on the bus, says the boy got in the backseat, far left. The right side is occupied as of now. Some grandmother, it appears. Will that be an issue?” 

Patrick scoffs and looks down at his watch. “Have these things ever been an issue for me?”

“Don’t get smart now, Stump,” Vicky snaps, though with more fondness than she might have when he was a rookie. “Remember, the emotional airways are only open when the targets are touching. Get them sitting together and don’t miss.”

“Will you ever stop treating me like a newbie?” Patrick asks, a smirk gracing his face as the bus finally comes into view. “Vehicle spotted. I’ll report after the mission.”

“Roger,” Vicky says. “Sending Saporta’s info your way. Good luck.”

Patrick nods to himself as Vicky signs off, blinking and adjusting to the pink lines now appearing on his glasses. They outline the layout of the bus in Gabe’s crude drawings, a bright red dot where the boy is seated. He nods again and then shakes his head to clear the screens.

Just in time for the bus to pull up. He pretends to check his phone, letting the girl get on the bus first, and then follows. 

Half the seats are already filled, making his job easier when he watches the girl recoil away from middle-aged moms with groceries and older men headed back from the gym. He keeps close behind her, almost crowding her into the back seats. She curses every now and then but the boy is so close—  _ so close _ — that Patrick can nearly smell those golden wings he'll earn after this. 

They’re in the back seats, just two rows from the red-haired boy. Patrick holds his breath as the girl draws closer. She doesn’t have to sit next to him, Patrick thinks as he reaches for the aid in his pocket. The thing is small, the size of a toothpick, and fits easily in the palm of his hand. Just a few more steps and maybe he can trip, get her to fall in the boy’s arms. That’d be a cute wedding story, right?

The boy glances up; the girl starts to slow. Patrick reaches slowly for his watch and twists the dial, revealing the spring contraption inside. He’s just about to load up the aid when—

“Okay, can you back away?” The girl spins around, hands flying to yank out her earbuds as she glares dangerously at him. “You’re too close for my comfort and I’d feel better if you left me alone.” There’s a hint of fear in her voice and Patrick winces. Admittedly, not the first time he’s forgotten about societal norms. They don’t exactly teach that at the agency.

“Hey, is something wrong?” And the boy stands, mimicking the girl’s actions in pulling his earbuds out. Patrick takes a step back, thankful he got stuck with the heroic type this time. As long as Patrick shoots the arrow before any punches are thrown, all should be good.

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick says and pretends to fiddle with his watch. He takes the chance to load the aid up inside. “I’ve just had, like, this glitch in the clock all day and wasn’t looking where I was going and—”

And the girl still looks ready to fight, maybe pull out some mace if the hand twitching towards her pocket is any indication. People are staring now, a fact that makes Patrick roll his eyes. They always want some sort of spectacle to gawk at. If the history books are true, not much has changed for Cupids. Patrick’s just glad he doesn’t have to carry an actual bow-and-arrow around.

“I’ll still kick your ass if you try anything,” the girl spits. The boy reaches out for her; Patrick bites down on his lip to hide his smile.

“Hey, let’s all just take a step back and calm down…” 

The boy grabs the girl’s arm, trying to get her to back off. She looks at him, the scowl on her face softening as their eyes meet. She reaches, covers his hand with her own.

And Patrick lets the arrow fly.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Hours later, Patrick stumbles into the Cupid’s Chokehold offices with a smile on his face and a filled assignment report in his hand.

“Where’s Vicky?” He asks, wiping the dot of blood from his index finger mindlessly as the machine behind him confirms his Cupid bloodline for security. “Someone, please, tell me you got Vicky’s reaction to that shot.  _ Don’t get smart now _ , my ass. That was a perfect play!”

“Well, well, well.” Brendon, the new guy of the company with a knack for matchmaking, grins up at Patrick from his computer, distracting the agent from his rant. “If it isn’t Mister One Hundred Couples. How’d it feel?”

Patrick smiles back, dropping his briefcase and report onto the desk beside Brendon’s with a sigh.

“Honestly? No different from the rest.” He unpacks his field supplies and frowns at the unused love potions and rose petals tucked inside. Such a waste… “Seriously, though. Anyone see Vicky recently?”

Brendon shrugs and turns to his computer to get back to filing through potential matches. “Her office, probably. She was telling Mikey off for his double-date tactic.”

“She’s still against that?” Patrick furrows his eyebrows together. “She has to admit it’s efficient at some point, right?”

Again, Brendon shrugs, filtering through interests and experiences for the two people pulled up on his screen. “I mean, it’s the same as Gabe’s attempted orgy tactic, right? And we were all against that. It’s only fair that he sticks to one couple per mission. Or else everyone would be doing it and they wouldn’t be able to make those damn golden wings fast enough for the amount of matchmaking going on. Speaking of which…” Brendon trails off, spinning to look back at Patrick over his glasses with a sharp-edged grin, “don’t you have a pair to collect?”

Patrick stands straighter, nodding excitedly in response to Brendon's question. In a few days— hours, even, if the schedule’s clear — he’ll have a real pair— a shining, golden, flying pair— of wings attached to his back. He’s not sure about the process— the rumors have ranged from surgery to magic— but he’s seen enough of them to know he needs them. Even Vicky’s, old and worn out as they are, have always been one of his greatest points of envy.

“Right,” he breathes, beaming at Brendon. “Well, then. Hopefully next time I see you…”

“Hopefully you’ll be wearing those wings everyone always talks about,” Brendon finishes with a wink. “Go get ‘em, Cupid.” 

Patrick’s smile grows and he hurries down the hall. 

One decade, he thinks. One whole decade since his mom told him, a confused fifteen-year-old boy, that he had Cupid blood and could choose whether or not to train for it. 

One decade since he saw his aunt’s golden wings— wings folded behind her back, as thin as a sheet of paper but as strong as steel— and knew he needed a pair of his own. 

One decade since he signed up for Cupid’s Chokehold’s training program, a series of rom-com education and theories on love at first sight. One decade since he swore off his own love in the name of the world’s— a sacrifice each Cupid must make. 

One decade since he learned the one thing stopping him from earning those golden wings was a quota of one hundred couples.

One hundred couples. Two hundred people for Patrick to make meet and fall in love. 

He began that journey, the journey as a field agent, five years ago.

And, finally,  _ finally _ , he can say he’s done.

Maybe his wings are already pinned on his back, he thinks. He already feels like he’s walking on air.

He makes it to Vicky’s office in no time, fighting down his smile because she hates the smug agents. Still, he can feel the corners of his lips twitching.

“Vic— Asher?” He asks upon arriving at her door, keeping it professional in hopes it will speed up the winging process. He peers into the open door to spot an amused Mikey and frustrated Vicky and, well, his smile finds its way back. “Did you get the latest mission report?’

Vicky looks over mid-sentence and sighs. “Yes, Stump. I did. Mikey, can you give us a moment?”

Mikey stands, clearly happy to leave his lecture. Patrick nods at him as he passes and Mikey smiles back.

“Nice job on the hundred,” Mikey says as he passes, adjusting his glasses. Patrick grins.

“Nice job on the double date.” 

Mikey shakes his head with a laugh, one that has Vicky rolling her eyes and gesturing for Patrick to enter the office. Patrick does, feeling as if each step is one step closer to his wings.

“Shut the door, please,” Vicky says, hopping up to sit on her desk. Again, Patrick obeys. 

So close, he thinks. So close…

“I got your report,” Vicky says. “We could do without the confrontation but, overall, very meet-cute.”

Patrick shrugs, eyes on Vicky’s wings as she spreads them out behind her, shining and glistening, the perfect partner for her pitch-black hair.

“They ended up together so,” he trails off, fidgeting in his place. “It counted.”

“Yes,” Vicky says slowly. “It did.”

“ _ So _ ,” Patrick prompts as he steps closer. “It wasn’t very dramatic but, like, it counted and that means it was my—”

“Patrick, it was your ninety-ninth,” Vicky says, seemingly unaware of the pile of bricks she just dropped on Patrick’s chest. “That couple… They count as your ninety-ninth.”

Patrick takes a moment, going through every couple he’s created in the past five years. He rattles off the names in his head, rapid-fire, counting through them before allowing himself to even blink.

Martin and Lewis. Shania and Benjamin. Hallie and Victor. Christopher and Ilyas. Marissa and Amelia. Ryan and Marriah… The list goes on.

“No,” Patrick says, just as slow as Vicky had spoken before. “I’ve created a hundred. I know I have. I’ve counted and cataloged all of them, there’s no way I’ve missed one.”

“No one’s saying you miscounted, Patrick,” Vicky says, the reassurance in her voice somehow making it sound worse. “It’s just that… You have to have one hundred under your belt by the time you get the golden wings. It’s not a rule, it’s a fact. The wings won’t bind to your magic if you haven’t proven yourself and, well, having a break-up in your resume isn’t quite proof that you’ll make it as a Top Level Cupid.”

For a moment, all the breath is sucked from Patrick’s lungs. He blinks and stammers for words, cheeks burning.

“A breakup?” He mutters.

Vicky nods and reaches behind herself to find a file. She glances through it and passes it to Patrick.

“Marriah and Ryan,” she says, matter-of-factly. “It was an oversight on our part and I’ll have a word with the matchmakers but the gist is that Ryan moved to Virginia two weeks ago and Marriah couldn’t leave her family behind— you know how she loves that dog of theirs— so. Well. I’m sure you can imagine.” 

Patrick’s too in shock to imagine much of anything right now. He doesn’t even open the file Vicky’s passed him, just holds it in disbelief.

“So what does this mean for my quota?” He asks. Vicky laughs, a sound like golden wings flapping together, and he feels his blood boil just a bit.

“Exactly what it would have meant before,” she says, jumping down from the desk and opening a file cabinet across the room. “You just have to create another couple, Patrick. I’m sure you can have that done by the end of the week.”

Patrick’s sure he can, too, but that doesn’t mean he wants to. He’d already been fantasizing about his golden wings and his celebration, had called his mom and to let them know the good news. All his friends, all his Cupid-blood family members… All for the humiliation of finding out one of his couples couldn’t handle long-distance.

“We have a few bookmarked cases. You know, the people who could fall in love with practically anyone? I’ll just assign you one of those and hope for the best. You have done Open Pairing before, right?” Vicky asks, looking up from the folders to see Patrick shake his head. She sighs and rolls her eyes. “That’s right, you were always a stricter terms kind of guy. All textbook-style pairing. Open Pairing is more fun, in my opinion, but it can be way more difficult. You won’t have a set match for your target so you’ll have to be aware of everyone they interact with. A possible match could be anyone from a childhood friend to a Starbucks barista. Just look for an opening and fire.”

Patrick drops the Marriah/Ryan file back on the desk and trudges over to Vicky, resigning himself to his fate.

“Sounds fair,” he sighs. “Will I have a team working with me or will it be solo?”

“Solo,” Vicky says with a nod. “These can be more unpredictable so there’s no efficient way to have an entire team coordinating. You cool with that?”

“I did solo for my first mission, right?” Patrick asks, taking the first file he sees in Vicky’s arms. She doesn’t protest further than an irritated “hey” so Patrick opens the folder to read. 

**Peter Wentz**

“I’ll take this guy,” Patrick says, shutting the file after a quick look at the dark-haired, tattooed punk clipped inside. “The young ones are always easier to handle.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think we have a recent picture for that guy, yet, actually,” Vicky says, dropping the other files back into the drawer and coming over to Patrick’s side. “Damn, yeah. We’ve been working on Wentz for years. He has a bad habit of dodging arrows.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Dodging them?”

“Not literally, stupid,” Vicky laughs, nudging Patrick. “He just takes more notice of Cupids than any other human we’ve met before. It’s like he can sense us coming, I swear. He often engages with his assigned Cupid long before he engages with his planned match. It makes for some difficult aiming.”

“Huh,” Patrick says, looking back down at the file and then back up at Vicky. “Yeah, okay, no thanks. Have any easier targets? A poet, maybe?”

“Wentz is a poet, believe it or not,” Vicky says, heading back to her desk. Patrick’s eyes narrow as she picks up a pen, uncaps it and starts filing through sheets…

“Oh, god, no, Vicky!” Patrick cries out, despair in his voice. “You can’t tell me the guy’s a hard case and then sign me up for him!”

“Hey, you claimed it long before I had the chance to warn you,” Vicky says, adding a flourish to the  _ p  _ in Patrick’s name on the assignment’s sheet. Patrick lets out a groan not unlike a dying animal and Vicky looks up, eyes as bright as the wings behind her. “Oh, cheer up, Stump. It’ll be your last couple. Why not go out with a challenge?”

Patrick sighs, tucking the folder under his arm and turning towards the door.

“Nobody’s a challenge for me, Vicky,” he grumbles, hands tightening into fists. “I’ll find Wentz the perfect soulmate, just you watch.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Five days later, — February first— Patrick is found in his apartment zipping up a leather jacket and combing his hair recklessly. He’s a Cupid, goddamnit, and he’s going to look just as mysterious and professional as a Cupid should.

Of course, he thinks, with a glare at the too small mirror, he’d look even better with golden wings attached to his back.

Yeah, he might still be a bit bitter over that.

Pleased with his appearance, Patrick places the fedora on his head and checks for smudges on his glasses. Once satisfied, he grabs his keys and heads for the door. 

Patrick had cheated a bit and asked Gabe to locate the target last night— he had owed him for that time Patrick taught Gabe the shortcut for anti-memory spells— and he focuses on the information feeding onto his glasses. Schedules, addresses, nicknames… Patrick grins. Gabe had gone a bit overboard with his work. He can never seem to fill out a favor without making sure Patrick will owe him back again.

Pausing before the leaving the apartment, Patrick checks through the more necessary details. Pete— the preferred nickname, according to Gabe’s info— lives on the outer fields of Patrick’s office’s boundaries, working as a columnist for the community’s local newspaper. Patrick nods to himself, already searching for the useful details in these facts. 

Pete. A simple nickname, familiar. Probably introduces himself as such, too, creating acquaintances out of strangers in seconds. Patrick understands the “Open Pairing” description already.

And as for the outer fields of the office’s boundaries... Patrick works for the Chicago unit and considers himself a specialist in city encounters— tourists being his favorite targets. Nothing grows the city quite like those that move to be with their newfound loved ones. Patrick’s shoulders fall a bit at the sight of the suburbs outside the city blinking with Pete’s presence. He doesn’t mind places like Glenview or Wilmette and the company deals with transportation but it would be a lie to claim it’s not out of his comfort zone. Still, Patrick pulls out his phone and sends a transportation request to Vicky. 

Finally, the local newspaper. A columnist, a journalist, a  _ writer _ . Patrick’s nose wrinkles. Vicky had called him a poet but Patrick scans through the column’s listed under Pete’s name. Opinion, opinion, opinion, crime, event coverage, event, opinion, opinion, opinion…

Patrick’s head starts spinning so much he can barely stand.

Opinion. 

He’s dealing with an opinion writer. 

He shakes his head, clearing the frames, and presses his fingers against his temple. 

Everything else was making sense for the Open Pairing label Pete was wearing. The nickname, the smaller community, even the journalist job gave people the chance to know his name.

But… Opinion?

Patrick takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and moving his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

Opinionated targets typically have a more specific match, someone who either agrees or is willing to debate playfully together. Some of Patrick’s least favored missions have been argument-based— the unrealistic moment of bickering-turned-flirting. And he knows Vicky knows this, knows he hates them because there’s no way to get two fighting targets to touch each other in a way that would make sense for a love story. One of his most regrettable couples had been hit by the aid— oh, fuck it,  _ arrow _ — while trying to beat each other half to death in a bar fight. It had been a quickfire and earned Patrick a round of applause back at the agency but he still cringes each time he remembers how easily that pushing match had escalated. He still checks up on their status every now and then, just to be sure Brendon had run the matchmaker diagnostics right for them. So far, at least, they’re doing fine.

But now Patrick has a whole other problem.

Pete Wentz, the opinionated columnist. Patrick hadn’t read through the articles but he can only imagine how outspoken he must be if he’s written so many. He sighs again and fights back a curse. Cupids, apparently, do not curse. It’s bad for the public image.

His phone buzzes, Vicky’s confirmation of a bus pass for the day. So, no turning back, Patrick thinks. 

Writing out a quick thanks, Patrick grabs his briefcase, fixes his hat, and sets forth on his mission.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Empty tables in empty rooms in empty buildings along empty streets.

Patrick drops his head into his hands, propping his elbows up on the table next to his cooling hot chocolate. He takes a deep breath; he shuts his eyes.

He tells himself he is not going to throw a fit.

His plan had been to arrive at the coffee shop across from Pete’s work around noon. Gabe’s info had said Pete likes to grab a coffee and cupcake on his break at that time, before he heads back to work for the rest of the day. It was the one clear window Patrick had— and coffee shop meets are rookie moves, easy enough to finish in minutes. He had even asked Brendon to send him the match details on the barista— an unmatched girl with the words ‘aspiring writer’ in all her social media bios— and started looking at building layouts in order to pick the best angle at which to shoot from.

It was the perfect plan.

But then the bus got stuck in traffic.

As a Cupid, Patrick has a lot of supposed magical abilities. Immortality, healing, not to mention the list of magical gadgets filling his briefcase… The list goes on. It’s a rather impressive resume but, Patrick had grumbled, it did not include teleportation.

That was saved for Cupids with golden wings.

The bus had arrived a few hours later than expected, dropping Patrick off into a deserted block— barren as a ghost town while children attended school and the adults attended work. The odd car passed by, a few miles over the speed limit, but not enough people for Patrick to find a match for Pete. Not enough people for him to sneak into Pete’s building, either.

So, Patrick finds himself waiting in the coffee shop, determined to keep his eyes on the building across for him and wait for Pete to finally make an appearance.

Not for the first time in his life, Patrick wonders if golden wings are really worth this. 

A few hours pass, enough for the kind girl at the counter to start discussing him worriedly with a coworker. Patrick’s frown deepens. Another stranger assuming he’s a creep. Of course.

Finally, with all the hope of a baby bird taking flight, Patrick sees the doors of the newspaper offices open and watches as Pete Wentz saunters out.

He’s in a crowd of other writers, all with messenger bags and notebooks in their hands. It’s hard to see Pete clearly through the smudged glass of the store window but Patrick sits up straighter as a red dot appears on his frames.

Pete. There’s no doubt Pete is in that group.

With a rush that causes him to stumble into the table, Patrick hurries to his feet and out the door, only feeling a tad guilty about leaving his cup behind for the employees to clean up. His eyes remain on Pete, or, rather, they remain on the back of his head. He has the same dark hair as in his picture, though it’s cut shorter and sticks out at odd angles. His tattoos are hidden under a leather jacket, not unlike Patrick’s own, and his laugh is enough of a beacon for Patrick to cross the street in confidence. The red dot on his glasses grows and starts blinking the closer he gets. 

Patrick shakes his head. He doesn’t need technology now, doesn’t need the gizmos and gadgets they fit him with on his first day. This is his last target; this is his chance to earn those golden wings.

Pete peels away from the group and Patrick follows, worrying his lip between his teeth. He scans the surrounding area as Pete heads for the parking lot, desperate for someone to appear and become Pete’s soulmate. The work day’s over for his office… Surely someone will show up?

Pete stops at an older car with tinted windows, digging into his pocket for his keys. Patrick stops walking even as his heart begins to pound.

Pete can’t get in that car. If he drives off, it will be a whole day wasted and Patrick will have to wait even longer for those wings. And he can’t do that. He refuses to do that.

And then, like an answer to his prayers,  _ she _ shows up.

The barista from the coffee shop, the one Patrick had originally planned on matching with Pete. Hope, if Patrick remembers her name correctly. A pretty girl with big blue eyes and a satin-soft voice. She’s just leaving the shop, folding her apron over her arm and looking down the street. Once satisfied, she begins to cross it.

She begins to walk towards Pete. 

Patrick’s heart leaps into his throat and he bites down on the inside of his cheek, glancing at Pete as he finally pulls out his keys and gets to work unlocking his car. If he gets inside, it’s all over. Hope won’t get here in time— she’s taking too long, checking her phone with one hand and untangling earbuds with the other— and Pete doesn’t know he needs to wait for her. Patrick pulls away from the wall he’d been pressed against. He hates interaction, hates anything that may expose the existence of Cupids, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Besides, it’s his last couple. What’s the chance he screws it all up on his last try?

“Hey!” He calls out, speed-walking for Pete. He only has half a plan, only has a barely formed conversation topic— just long enough, he prays, for Hope to cross the parking lot and walk past them. Once she’s close… Well, Patrick’s not sure what he can do then, but he imagines Vicky will cut him slack if he just pushes them at each other.

Pete doesn’t respond to him, finally getting his car unlocked. Patrick’s heart speeds up and he glances at Hope. She’s almost here, god, she’s almost here! Patrick makes it to Pete, at last, mouth open to continue his shouts.

He’ll just pretend he thinks Pete is someone else. And, once Hope walks by, he’ll, he doesn’t know, trip Pete? Push and make a run for it? Pretend to pass out and hope they try to admit him into the hospital together?

Patrick’s never been the best at improvisation.

He reaches for the arrow in his pocket and hopes for the best. If he’s close enough, he won’t have to shoot it. He’ll just stick one of them, like he joked with his friends in the office. Just stab Pete or Hope with the arrow and pray for the best.

He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, wrist stiff and ready for action.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath, stopping beside Pete. “Hey, do you have a second? Because—”

And Pete slams his door open, crashing it into Patrick’s gut.

Patrick falls back, air leaving him in one whoosh, and reaches for his ribs once he collapses onto the ground in an undignified heap. A red dot appears on his frames again, taking up all his vision.

Yeah, he supposes. He found Pete.

“Oh, fuck, dude, I’m so sorry.” Pete falls beside Patrick as the he's shaking his head, clearing both his glasses and his mind. “I had my music on and didn’t hear you come up.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick snaps because, no, it’s not fine. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, glaring darkly as Hope walks right past them. He opens his mouth to call out for her— maybe he can pretend he’s her wingman? — but then realizes something horrible.

The arrow is missing. 

Pete’s still talking, assessing Patrick’s well-being with questions about the date and president. Patrick ignores him, scrambling onto his knees and searching the street relentlessly for his arrow.

“Dude!” Pete says, reaching out for Patrick’s wrist in an attempt to get his attention. “Can you answer me? Fuck, are you gonna sue?”

“I’m looking for something,” Patrick says harshly, trying to yank his wrist free. But Pete has a tight grip, lifting Patrick’s hand and wrinkling his nose.

“I think you broke a finger when you fell. Oh my god, I’m a horrible person.”

Patrick’s pretty sure he didn’t but he makes a mental note to complain to Vicky about it later. Maybe she’ll feel bad for putting him through all this.

“Look, I dropped something so can you let me go so I can find it?” Patrick asks, finally looking up into Pete’s eyes and slamming his free hand onto the ground.

Something sharp— something horribly, familiarly sharp-- stabs into his palm.

And Patrick’s heart stops.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s immensely strange to be walking into the office that night. It’s after hours and no one’s called him in. All the agents should either be at home or performing late night missions. Only the matchmakers and data collectors work at this time. The feeling of pricking his finger against the lock at night is disorienting to Patrick’s already blurry head.

As always, Bredon’s the first to greet him.

“Hey! Stupid Cupid, you get that last couple?” Brendon asks. Patrick blinks, the familiar voice a jarring sound in his mind.

“Huh? What?” He blinks again, shoving his shaking hands into his pocket. “Oh, y-yeah. Maybe? I think… I don’t… Is Vicky here?”

Brendon frowns, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “She always is. Hey, is everything okay? Vicky said you just had an Open Pair target and I assumed you’d be done with that in a heartbeat.”

“Ha,” Patrick breathes, walking past Brendon and to his desk. “A heartbeat.”

He sits down, starting up his computer and murmuring nonsensically to himself. Brendon watches, his expression wary, as Patrick logs onto the Cupid’s Chokehold database and starts searching for Cupid’s Arrows.

“Patrick…”

“Right,” Patrick says, pressing the backspace without blinking. “It’s aid now.” And he types it in without hesitation.

“Patrick.” Brendon’s tone is a bit more concerned, his chair wheeling towards Patrick at a slow but steady pace.

“Hey,” Patrick says to Brendon with a strange look in his eyes. “If Vicky asks—”

“If Vicky asks what?”

And, for once, Patrick’s eyes fill with emotion again. Irritation, fear, panic… He turns to Vicky with a forced smile.

“Well, speak of the devil,” he says. “I was just asking Brendon to run some match probabilities for me. I know you said no teamwork but I could use the help.”

Vicky’s eyebrows furrow together. “So you didn’t get Wentz?”

Patrick’s smile twitches. “I—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Vicky says, smiling at him even though her wings ruffle a bit. “You haven’t worked on many missions like this so I suppose it was a bit cruel to send you in alone. Just don’t bother Brendon too much, okay? We have other matches to focus on.”

Patrick feigns a salute as Vicky leaves, sighing and slumping down over his desk when he turns back around to face it.

Brendon pokes at him. “I thought you said you already got Wentz?”

“I said maybe,” Patrick grumbles, his voice barely audible against the wooden desk. Brendon pokes him again.

“What do you mean, maybe?” He asks. “I know I’m new here but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. Did you misfire? Did you get a possible match? Did you get an improbable match?”

At last, Patrick lifts his head with the same blank look in his eyes as before.

“I got…” he starts, voice cracking just a bit. “I got  _ something _ .”

“Uh huh,” Brendon says. “Like what?”

“Like…” Patrick thrusts out his arm, yanking up the sleeve as he does so. “Like his number.”

For a blessed moment, Brendon is silent. Even Patrick’s own thoughts calm down as he gazes at the numbers scrawled messily across his arm— in hot pink glitter pen, no less.

Of course, nothing good can last forever.

“Oh my fucking god, Patrick, oh my fucking god,” Brendon panics, unknowingly repeating Patrick’s earlier mantra. “You… You didn’t. You did  _ not _ . You are a law-abiding Cupid, you hit  _ me _ earlier this year just for joking about spilling the beans about Chokehold. You didn’t, god, Patrick. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t…” Patrick starts out, rolling his sleeve back down and wincing at his next words, “... do it on purpose.”

Brendon facepalms, breathing deeply.

“Please,” he says. “Explain. If you’re going to make me, like, an accessory to this crime, you own me an explanation.”

Patrick’s face grows hot as he turns back to his computer.

“Calm down,” he snaps, more for a semblance of control than anything else. “I just… I dropped the arr—  _ aid _ today and grabbed it by the wrong end.” Close enough to the truth. “Pete, er, Wentz happened to be trying to help when it happened.”

Brendon lets his hand fall back down to the desk and looks up at the ceiling. 

“I might tease you about that later,” he says. “But, for now, what the  _ hell _ , Patrick?”

“Look, it was a mistake!” Patrick snaps, turning to glare at the younger man. “Do you really think I would do something so stupid on purpose? I’ll be lucky if I even get my wings after all this so if you think for one moment I’d give them up—”

“Alright,” Brendon says, watching Patrick from the corner of his eye. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Patrick spits out, turning away. His hands shake as he tries to type out a new phrase on the computer— potion, antidote, help,  _ anything _ — but neither of them mention it. “I’m calm.”

Brendon’s silent as Patrick types, hands flying across the keyboard and eyes scanning each page with a desperation Patrick’s rarely felt before. There has to be a reversal for this thing— there  _ has  _ to be. Surely, someone else has done this before? Certainly, Patrick can’t be the first?

The only recurring results are the Cupid laws banning him from feeling love at all.

“Hey,” Brendon says, tone softer than before. Soothing, sympathetic… Patrick hates it. “Look, I’m sure it won’t do anything. Cupids are resistant to the arrows, right? I’m— I’m pretty sure I heard that in training.”

Patrick’s hands stop moving, frozen in the middle of a word, and his frantic thoughts stop with it.

“Brendon, I’m—” His voice cuts off, worry and fear clogging his throat like a sob. “Yeah, you’re right but… but only full Cupids are resistant to it.”

It takes less time than Patrick would like in order for Brendon to understand.

Patrick doesn’t look but Brendon’s soft gasp is more than enough to have him biting down on his tongue.

“You mean you’re—”

“My mom turned down the chance to be a Cupid,” Patrick explains before Brendon has the chance to theorize. “And my dad is a full-blooded human. My granddad and aunt are the only ones I know with wings. It was enough for them to consider me but I… I don’t know if it’s… if it’s enough to…”

“Patrick.” Brendon reaches to cover Patrick’s hand with his own, eyes wide when Patrick finally turns to look at him. He’s just as out of his depth as Patrick is; even more so, Patrick thinks. He’s a matchmaker, a new hire, a young kid with the ink on his diploma still drying. Patrick’s been on the field for five years. And he’s never been more terrified than he is right now.

“I need to get those wings, Brendon,” Patrick whispers. “I… I’ve been fighting for them for too long. My brother and sister… did you know they laughed at the idea of being a Cupid? Found it juvenile and immature? They turned it down and went to a  _ real  _ college, got a  _ real _ job, said they were going to make a difference that people could actually  _ see _ . I don’t want to throw all this away. Those wings are worth everything to me.”

“I know,” Brendon says, but he doesn’t, Patrick knows he doesn’t. People who care about wings don’t become matchmakers; people who understand the need for them don’t sit at a desk all day doing nothing but algorithms for hours. And Patrick knows that’s a cruel thought, knows Brendon must have a passion of his own, but, now, he can’t think of anything but himself. 

“I need them,” Patrick breathes again. Brendon merely nods, eyebrows furrowed together.

“I’m sure nothing will happen,” Brendon tries, sounding more confident with each word. “Like, with humans, it affects them right away, right? So if anything was going to happen, you would have felt it then, right? But you’re freaking out and you obviously don’t want to sacrifice your wings for this so I’m sure it didn’t get you. You’re going to be fine.”

Patrick's quiet for a long time, pulling his hand away and blinking back fear.

Brendon makes sense. Brendon has a good point. Brendon sounds so much like he believes what in he’s saying.

“Alright,” Patrick says, looking away.

Brendon knows what he’s talking about.

But Brendon doesn’t know how mesmerizing Pete’s eyes are.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick wakes to slamming doors and raucous laughter. He opens his eyes slowly, confusion painting his thoughts.

The office.

Patrick blinks, sitting up and groaning at the ache in his back from falling asleep across his desk. It’s 7:30— a handful of hours before his shit is ever supposed to start— and the information crew is already filing in. As loudly as possible, of course.

“Hey! Stump! You fell asleep here again?” Gabe asks as he passes by, tossing an apple back and forth with a wide grin on his face. Patrick wrinkles his nose and yawns in response. 

“Shut up, Gabe, at least some of us do work,” he says. Gabe’s eyes flick to the screen behind Patrick and his eyebrows raise.

“Don’t let your boss catch you on that,” he says. “You know she’ll kill you if those moms get on our ass about violence again.”

Patrick glances over to his computer as Gabe walks away, frowning when he sees the mythology of Cupid’s Arrows typed into the search bar. 

Why would he look that up? He knows the mythology better than practically anyone so why—

_ Oh _

Patrick’s eyes widen and he rushes to close the page out, though he knows there’s nothing on it to lead to the… the conclusion of why he had to be researching the magic’s affect all night.

Brendon had left sometime around midnight, logging in fifty new couple probabilities and calling it a night. He’d offered Patrick a ride home but, well, Patrick’s mind was too frantic to sleep. Of course, the need for it kicked in at 3 am but, until then, he had been searching desperately for an answer to his problems.

An answer which, evidently, doesn’t exist.

Patrick taps his foot restlessly, hiding his face in his hands as he thinks. Pete’s number burns into his skin like a magic of its own, reminding Patrick of how easily that man’s smile had melted him, how quickly his voice had Patrick forgetting his own name. 

_ “Let me make it up to you. There’s a cute coffee shop nearby. I’ve got some more work to do at home today but we can meet up tomorrow?” _

Patrick should have said no, should have done anything other than look into those deep earthy eyes. Eyes that smiled and laughed and crinkled just right, in every possible form of charming.

_ “S-sure. I’d love to _ .”

Love to.

Patrick’s disgusted with himself. 

Still, the coffee shop is where that Hope girl works and a few other pleasant employees, too, if she’s off today. So far, Patrick’s not feeling more than an aesthetic satisfaction with Pete’s existence. Today’s the perfect chance to make certain no one ever finds out about his mistake. He’ll find a new match for Pete— preferably someone that’s not him— and have his wings in no time. 

He swears it.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Waiting in the coffee shop has Patrick’s fight-or-flight response fluttering in his veins like it’s ready to choose flight in an instant. He’d arrived here early, picked out the table from before, and realized what a horrible decision that was. Arriving early means waiting and waiting means thinking.

Thinking means Pete.

Pete. Who Patrick was going to shoot with an arrow and forget all about. No matter about the color of his eyes or the warmth of his voice the other day. That was… That was the side effect of Patrick’s mistake. And it was going to wear off sooner or later. Full Cupid or not, he’s convinced there’s no way the magic in that arrow was potent enough to affect him.

Well. He’s  _ mostly  _ convinced.

Patrick glances at the barista— Hope, thank goodness— and debates ordering a coffee and hiding in the back. If Pete asks her where he went, he could get them… 

But then the door opens and Patrick jolts in his seat, that stupid red dot in his glasses going off again.

He shakes his head sharply, his pulse assaulting him as he hears Pete’s footsteps grow closer. It’s fear, nothing more. Pete was there when Patrick messed up, his instincts tell him; his attack with a car door is what caused him to drop that arrow in the first place. 

Still, when Pete smiles at Patrick and slips into the seat beside him— because, of course, he’s the kind of guy to slip  _ beside  _ someone rather than across—, Patrick tries to remember if smiling back can be considered a sign of fear, as well.

“Patrick, right? I was scared you weren’t coming,” Pete says, grinning widely. Patrick fights down his own smile, looking at his hands instead.

“Is that so?” Patrick asks. Maybe Pete didn’t want him to come; maybe Pete realized something’s off about this.

Maybe arrows don’t work on Cupids.

“Yeah, you never texted,” Pete exclaimed. “Not that I was checking my phone every hour but… Well, I can get a bit paranoid. I don’t have the best track record for dating, so…”

“Oh.” Images of Pete’s file fill Patrick’s mind, every one-night-stand and long-term partner. Granted, he did have more than the usual amount but Patrick’s sure it’s a side effect of his Open Pair status. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

Not that Patrick can say any of that out loud.

“I’ve never dated before so I’m sure you’re doing fine,” Patrick says instead, running his finger across the table. His eyes glance toward the counter, watching Hope as she takes another order. His stomach twists and he tries to push nonchalance into his tone. “Hey, so, are you gonna order anything?”

“What? Oh. Not now,” Pete says. “I already had coffee today and I’ve been told it’s not the greatest when I get too much.”

Patrick does his best not to scream. Pete seems determined to ruin every shot at golden wings Patrick has. No matter, Patrick’s creative enough to figure this out. Already, his mind starts plotting out a way to tip over his drink so Hope has to come clean it up. Not the most polite idea but enough to earn her a soulmate, so it seems fair. “Then why set up a date at a coffee shop?”

“Oh, so it’s a date?”  

Patrick freezes, looking at Pete with widened eyes and flaming cheeks.

“I— I mean, I had thought…” He trails off, hand tightening around his cup. He’s going to toss the drink all over Pete, he’s decided. He’s going to stand up and dump his hot chocolate on Pete’s stupid head and let it drip down to stain those ridiculously skinny jeans. Though, Patrick considers, wouldn’t it be a shame to burn that already warm skin? Wouldn’t it be awful to give Pete a reason to toss out his tight black t-shirt? Wouldn’t it be an absolute tragedy to give him a reason to lose that smile?

Patrick’s thoughts make him sick but he can’t quite turn away from them. Especially not when that smile grows and Pete’s laughter fills the air.

“I thought so, too, so don’t worry.” He leans closer to Patrick, propping his head up on a hand. “I just wanted to double-check because I don’t typically get to date people as cute as you.”

It’s the arrow speaking, the attraction placed there when the magic flowed from Patrick’s skin to Pete’s. Pete’s a human, he’s more susceptible to such things. So he doesn’t mean a word he’s saying.

Patrick keeps his expression neutral, heart pounding in his chest. “You can’t possibly be honest about that.” He’s seen the file. He knows what kind of people Pete considers cute. Not many of them include short guys with thick glasses and a bad temper.

Pete chuckles, eyes practically hearts as he gazes at Patrick. Patrick, who watches as Hope picks up a rag and starts wiping down tables around them. Hope, who should be here with Pete’s gorgeous eyes on her, not him.

Patrick’s grip tightens on his cup. He should spill it soon; he should spill it now.

“You’re right— I  _ never  _ get to date people as cute as you.”

Pete’s smile softens as much as his voice.

He doesn’t mean it.

Patrick glances at Hope. He lifts his cup.

And he brings it to his lips for a sip, smiling shakily at Pete.

“Well,” he says, lips brushing against the brim of his cup. “At least we’re in this together.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Each day, Patrick falls further away from his mission; each day, Patrick falls further into the arrow’s control.

Not that he’ll admit to either.

Days pass before Patrick can blink— days filled with enough of Brendon’s curious stares to last a lifetime. Patrick’s become an entirely nocturnal worker, clocking in after hours and researching arrows all night. Brendon stays with him, questioning how he’s handling the situation. Patrick responds as honestly as he can each time— he’s doing his best.

“Okay, but, like, you’re not into him, right?” Brendon asks on the fourth night of this, chewing on one of the cookies set out in the office. “You’d know by now if you were into him.”

“It’s been a little less than a week,” Patrick snaps, opening the sixteenth page of Google’s search results. “How on earth would that be enough time to know by now?”

Brendon shrugs. “Well, I mean, the arrow is supposed to be fast-acting so there’s that. If your half-Cupidness wasn’t enough, I’m sure there’d be reactions. Not to mention that you know if someone’s hot just by looking at them. Do you think he’s hot?”

Without permission, Pete’s smirk and teasing voice fill Patrick’s mind. He clears his throat, turning his chair a bit to hide the blush painting his cheeks.

“Finding someone attractive,” Patrick starts, palms sweating as he thinks of Pete, “in no way equivalates to liking them, let alone loving them.”

“Oh, okay, but you do find him hot, then?” 

Patrick glances at Brendon from the side of his eye.

“He’s had at least ten past partners. Serious partners, Bren. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole damn world found him hot.” Patrick’s stomach turns at the thought but he pushes it away. He’s merely stating a fact, that’s all. No reason to act like it’s proof the arrow did anything to him.

Brendon hums. “And I guess he thinks you’re good-looking, too, then, if you guys are still going out.”

He’s saying it to himself but Patrick still pushes away from his desk to face the younger boy.

“We are not going out,” he snaps, tone harsh and fists tight. “We’re not. He might… He might think we are but it’s just research for me. Hands-on matchmaking. Like the old days, right? We all have history books, it’s not unheard of for Cupids to interact with their targets.”

Brendon holds his hands up in surrender but still rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“If he’s as hot as you say, then why is it so hard for you to match him up with anybody?” He asks. “With that logic, he should have a bangin’ partner by now. A human partner, Patrick.”

Patrick turns back to his computer, an uneasy feeling in his gut.

“It’s complicated.”

“Right,” Brendon says, mimicking Patrick’s actions and turning back to his work. “Just admit that the arrow got you and go see Vicky while you can still think clearly.”

“I am thinking clearly,” Patrick says through clenched teeth. “And why the hell would I willingly tell Vicky about a screw-up?”

“So she can help you submit for a blood test? Don’t tell me you haven’t considered one, Patrick. Let the professionals find out what’s going on and take it from there.” He pauses, dropping his voice to a murmur. “I’m worried, okay? You’ve never taken this long on a mission and you’ve certainly never gotten so close to a human.”

“I’m part human so that point’s moot,” Patrick snaps, wincing when Brendon raises an eyebrow at him. “But I’m also a Cupid and I would know if the arrow was affecting me. If I was head-over-heels do you really think I’d be planning on setting him up at our next da— meeting?”

Brendon, thankfully, ignores the slip-up.

“Okay, well, just keep an eye on it,” Brendon says. “If I’m noticing weird behaviors, Vicky is sure to do the same soon.”

“Weird behaviors,” Patrick scoffs. “What weird behaviors?”

Brendon only sighs.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Meeting with Pete, Patrick finds, almost feels like meeting sunlight for the first time in Spring. Warmth fills his being at the sight of his… his  _ target _ sitting on a park bench with the wind caressing lightly through his dark hair. He wears the softest of smiles as he sees Patrick grow closer. A similar smile finds its way onto Patrick’s face, that incessant red dot blinking into his vision before Patrick shakes it away. 

He’s only playing along because the weather is so nice, he tells himself. February targets usually leave him with extra layers of clothes or shivering from unpreparedness. This February is unusually warm, the sun shining favorably down on the couple— couple meaning two people, Patrick shouts in his mind— as he sits beside Pete.

If their legs brush, it’s only because the bench is hardly big enough for the both of them.

Pete begins his rambles immediately, a trait Patrick’s oddly fond of. He speaks of work, of the troubles of his column— an anonymous love advice column, listed under Opinion because there’s really no other place for it—, of the nickname Stupid Cupid he has at work for being such a romantic. Patrick can’t help but laugh at the sound, though the phrase “Cupid” in Pete’s lips causes chills to run down his spine. He’s playing a dangerous game. He’s living life not on the edge but off of it, holding on only by the tip of his nails as he scoots closer to Pete and tips his knee to bump into the other’s.

It’s the arrow; it’s the mission. It’s a thousand things other than what it looks like. He has every excuse in the book

The smile Patrick feels on his own lips, though, tells him all those excuses— all those reasons— are as flimsy as the cardigan on his back. Not the leather jacket Cupids are supposed to wear, pretending to be agents or spies. He’d left it behind. He’s not aiming an arrow today, is he? This is research. This is reconnaissance. This is—

“Valentine’s Day is coming up,” Pete says, bringing Patrick’s focus back to  _ this _ . “Do you… Do you have any plans?”

Patrick’s smile is wry even as his insides twist. Valentine’s Day— a day he’s worked on overtime before but with twice as many results. A day where his magic and Cupid bloodline magnify because of the belief in love spreading. Like strangers clapping for a fairy to live, the word love itself breeds his magic.

Will that day be enough to push out any intruding emotions from his veins? Or will it double the effect of what’s already— possibly— occurred?

Patrick shifts awkwardly, looking into his lap.

Yes, he has plans. He has work. He has to find Pete a match; he needs to earn his golden wings.

“I don’t know,” he says, poking the toe of his shoe into the dirt beneath them. “Do you?”

Pete smiles and Patrick— Patrick the Cupid with magic and a dream for golden wings— feels so weak.

“I might,” Pete says. “If this cute guy wants to hang out with me for a bit.”

Patrick can't help his grin. "What if the guy doesn't understand all the hype about it?"

Patrick swallows as Pete expresses his love for all things Valentine’s.

“Oh, come on! Yeah, the chocolates are a bit cliche and I’ve seen more people sneeze at flowers than I could count but I love the hearts everywhere,” he says, hands moving animatedly as he speaks. “And I kinda love Cupid so there’s that.”

Patrick’s torn between chewing his lip into a bloody mess and smiling.

Are those golden wings worth the confliction he feels now?

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The weather’s even nicer the next time Patrick meets up with Pete. It’s early morning, the dew from the night still clinging to blades of grass like lovers, and Pete had asked him to meet him at a small convenience store a few blocks from the coffee shop. 

Patrick’s barely surprised at his inability to say no at this point.

There’s no wind as Patrick walks down the street, no map other than that red dot pointing him in the right direction, and the sun promises to be kinder later. For now, it’s the kind of heat that has Patrick lifting his hat in irritation, adjusting his hair as sweat sticks it to his forehead.

It’s not that he cares about his appearance for the meeting. He’s just… He’s just uncomfortable knowing he doesn’t look his best. Thankfully, though, a step into the shade banishes the heat.

As always, the red dot appears on his glasses, hiding Pete’s classic smirk from view but not quick enough that Patrick doesn’t blush.

“Right on time, Pattycakes,” Pete says. Patrick rolls his eyes, shaking his head to clear the dot. Pete no longer questions the action, though Patrick does miss the confusion in his tone whenever he’d do so.

“Am I ever late?” Patrick jokes. When Pete takes his hand, it’s just Patrick playing along. It’s just the arrow taking control.

It’s nothing.

“So,” Patrick says as Pete leads him into the store, hand snug against his. “This is a romantic idea.”

Pete nudges Patrick with his shoulder, laughing lightly as they walk past newspapers and snacks.

“Okay, you joke,” Pete says, “but it actually is one of my most romantic ideas yet.”

Patrick hums. He knows by now not to question Pete’s antics.

He doesn’t dwell on how he’s been around Pete long enough to know.

“Alright, here we are! I stalked out the right aisle before you got here so we wouldn’t waste time getting lost!”

Patrick snorts. “Only we would get lost in a conve— Okay, Pete, what exactly is your plan?” 

Of course, Pete only smiles in response.

Patrick stares down the aisle. The aisle in which, he’s sure, some Valentine’s Day creature blew up.

Red and pink streamers decorate the shelves, shelves stocked with dozens of chocolate boxes and cutesy heart-themed toys. Balloons rest against the ceiling, each with a stupid love pun on it, and an entire section is dedicated to giant music-playing cards.

Patrick’s thoughts pause, his eyebrows furrowing together.

He’s never been so attacked by Valentine’s Day and he’s a freaking Cupid.

Leave it to Pete Wentz…

“Valentine’s is just, like, a week away, and so I was thinking we should do something to get in the spirit.” 

“The spirit,” Patrick repeats, an eyebrow raised. “Right, okay.”

If the hesitance in his voice is audible, Pete ignores it, tugging him towards the cards with a childlike grin on his face. Patrick has no choice but to follow, tripping over his own feet as he’s pulled along.

“These are so cute, Patrick, you have to look at them,” Pete says, dropping his hand to reach for the closest one. It’s half his size, the cover showing off a bear holding a heart with the phrase ‘I love you beary much’ written within it. Pete smiles and opens it, gracing the entire store with a chipmunk-sounding rendition of Stevie Wonder’s  _ I Just Called To Say I Love You _ .

Patrick rushes to shut the card again before the chorus is halfway through.

“Aw, c’mon,” Pete whines with a twinkle in his eye. “That was such a sweet card.”

Patrick glares, his eyes narrowing almost comically. “That was a disgrace to all forms of music, Peter.”

Pete laughs, lacing his fingers with Patrick’s again as he nods in resignation. “Alright, then, smart-ass. You pick one.”

Patrick rolls his eyes at the insult but accepts the challenge, turning to the cards with the intent of finding the most romantic one. He’s a Cupid, it should come naturally to him.

Almost on cue, his eyes land on a picture of a young child with wings holding onto a bow and arrow clumsily.

His smile falls; his stomach drops. He reaches out, brushing his fingers against the wings on the card’s cover.

He’s worked so hard on those and, yet, here he is a week or so after his mission was assigned and he's barely even trying anymore. He can’t remember the last time he saw Hope or anyone that would be a good match for Pete. His grip on Pete’s— on his  _ target’s—  _ hand tightens.

This isn’t fair. He shouldn’t feel so sick at the thought of finishing his damn job.

The cashier was a young guy, right? Pete might like him. Or what if they wait for someone else to walk into the store, someone young and pretty and just right for Pete? Pete’s an Open Pair, he could fall in love with anyone.

And, somehow, Patrick conned him into falling in love with him.

Patrick’s not aware of how long he stares at the Cupid image, fingers stuck on the art, until Pete slowly reaches out to take the card out from its slot.

“You like this one?” He asks, his voice tentative as if, somehow, he knows what Patrick’s thinking or feeling. “I guess it’s kinda cool.”

“Kinda? I thought you liked Cupids.” Patrick’s tone is more defensive than he means it to be. 

He feels Pete’s eye roll more than sees it. “Not these kind. I mean, they’re cool for the idea of Valentine’s Day but I was talking more the mythology version. Eros and Psyche, you know?”

Patrick’s sure he’s heard the story passed around Chokehold like rumors but it doesn’t spark anything in his mind so he merely shrugs. Pete takes it as permission to go on one of his famous rants.

“I always loved that story when I was younger. Basically, Eros— Cupid— was sent by Aphrodite to curse a girl named Psyche— a girl, it was rumored, more beautiful than Aphrodite herself. But when Eros entered Psyche’s bedchambers, he accidentally pricked himself with an arrow.”

Patrick could almost laugh; he could almost push Pete away and accuse this entire situation of being an elaborate joke. 

Instead, he grows cold.

“What a stupid mistake,” he says, voice devoid of emotion. Pete swings their hands together between them, placing the card back in its place.

“Yeah,  _ no _ , because it leads to this epic love story,” he says. “Psyche can’t find a husband on earth since that’s the curse Eros put on her. So Eros marries her instead but the rule was that she couldn’t look at him. She follows this rule until her sisters grow jealous and convince her that she’s married to a beast who will eventually kill her. So she prepares to kill him instead and—”

“I don’t think I like this story,” Patrick interrupts, yanking his hand free. “She’s so ready to kill him just because he isn’t human?”

“Because she thinks he’s going to kill her,” Pete clarifies. “But, don’t worry. She doesn’t succeed. She just loses Eros because she broke the promise of never looking at him.”

Patrick scoffs. “Oh, so losing love is better than killing it, is that the moral?”

“Will you let me finish?” Pete asks, irritation filling his voice and guilt filling Patrick’s being. “She searches for her love and completes these impossible tasks for Aphrodite in the hopes they will be reunited. And Eros secretly helps her because he’s still in love—”

“So why doesn’t he go back?” Patrick winces before the words are out, already sensing Pete’s frustration with the interruption.

Sure enough, Pete sighs. “I don’t know. It’s an old story; I don’t remember all the details. The majorly abridged version is that she gets tricked into falling into some sort of sleep and that’s finally what brings them together. Eros begs Zeus to make her immortal so she lives and they end up happily ever after.”

Pete rushes through the story and Patrick would almost feel bad if he didn’t already feel so sick.

Attempted murder? Lost love? Impossible trials?

It seems nothing good can ever come from loving a Cupid. And Pete must understand this if he knows this story so well.

“Happily ever after,” Patrick says to himself. “Sounds nice.”

Pete looks to him, frowning as he pulls Patrick closer.

“It’s not impossible,” he says. 

But Patrick’s not so sure.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick’s been ignoring his duties. He hasn’t checked in with Vicky for over a week; he hasn’t been to the office in longer. It’s only a matter of time until someone finds out something’s wrong. It’s only a moment left until this has to end.

Still, fool that he is, Patrick finds no harm in meeting with Pete once more. It’s the fifth in as many days, Nowhere special other than Pete’s car, driving down the streets with the windows rolled down and the radio turned up.

There are few words and, for the first time in Patrick’s life, this is okay. The lack of conversation is merely the lack of spoken emotions and, each time they share a look over a particularly touching lyric that may come on, there are more than enough unspoken feelings to last a lifetime even if the drive only lasts a handful of hours.

It’s still just the arrow, though. 

Pete rests a hand on Patrick’s thigh, looking to him with a raised eyebrow to be sure it’s okay. Patrick rests his hand on top of Pete’s, an assurance that it is. 

It’s just the arrow. 

Windows down, the breeze brushing through their hair, laughter filling the spaces between songs.

Just the arrow, just the arrow, just the confined space making everything seem so much bigger than it is. Pete’s smile, Pete’s voice, Pete’s hand beneath his.

And Patrick’s confidence the arrow must have done something. 

There’s every explanation for the way he thinks he feels.

But there are none for the way he never wants to give it up.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The next time they meet up— February tenth, a day after spending all night sending stupid Valentine’s Day puns to each other— is the kind of day Patrick’s only seen in movies and board meetings where the higher-ups describe the perfect meet-cute. The sun is shining, a brisk breeze moves through the air, and no one else is around.

They’re in the parking lot they met at, Patrick waiting for Pete to unlock his car as they joke about when the door knocked Patrick into the ground. It was fate, Pete says with a smile. 

“Maybe it was Cupid’s arrow,” Patrick says dryly. Pete laughs harder than Patrick expected he would.

It’s another day of driving lazily around the town, looking for anything and everything that catches their eye. Pete wants to find somewhere to eat; Patrick’s content just being alone.

Alone.

It’s a strange sensation.

As a Cupid, he’s never felt alone before, not in the way he does with Pete. As a Cupid, the two settings are always either supervised or lonely. But never this sort of alone where he can relax into the knowledge that someone is with him, someone who will let him stay silent when he needs to but will listen if Patrick has something to say. He doesn’t feel observed like he does with the other Cupids; he doesn’t feel ignored.

He’s alone with Pete. And it’s a perfect feeling.

Of course, he knows it’s just the arrow. 

They finally compromise and pull into an empty-looking bookstore boasting an attached Starbucks. Pete takes Patrick’s hand as they walk inside, grinning proudly when a stranger walking past raises their eyebrows at the sight.

It’s just the arrow, Patrick reminds himself. Pete’s pride, his joy, his love for Patrick. It’s all the arrow. 

The meeting, the date, the time together is the same as it always is— perfect. Pete rants about his job and Patrick gives his humble advice, laughing at all the jokes Pete makes and complaining about his own work when Pete asks about it. They order hot chocolates and muffins and sit at a table in the corner, sharing secrets and smiles.

“I don’t know what’s going on with my work anymore,” Patrick admits, picking at his chocolate chip muffin as he speaks. “I thought I knew what I wanted but I messed up and now it’s all confused in my head.”

“Messed up? I don’t believe it for a second,” Pete says, pulling his chair to be seated right beside Patrick. Patrick nearly smiles but talking about Chokehold puts a stop to that idea.

“There are rules and I broke one and I don’t know what’s going to happen if they find out,” he says, voice growing more upset. “And I know it’s not really my fault but I’m okay with breaking the rule. Is that wrong? Am I sick or something?”

“I don’t think so,” Pete says. “What rule did you break?”

Patrick hesitates, licking his lips and shrugging. “One of the bigger ones. Something about who I’m allowed to get closed to. Client rules and all that.” It’s close enough to the truth. “But that’s not important, Pete. What’s important is that I broke it and I had the chance to fix it… I still have the chance but I’m scared of how I’ll feel once they put a stop to it. You know, like, when, like you have a sort of unhealthy fascination with something and you know it shouldn’t be your top priority but you’ve already changed so much because of it? And you’re scared of what will happen if you give it up? That’s how I feel.”

Pete clearly doesn’t understand, eyebrows furrowed close together and mouth drawn in a tight line, but he nods sympathetically anyway.

It’s the arrow. It’s just the arrow.

“Everyone breaks the rules sometime, Patrick,” he says. Patrick tries to scoff but it comes out more like a hysterical laugh.

“And apparently they end up losing everything they love when that happens in your stories so forgive me if I don’t find that wholly reassuring,” he says with a heavy breath.

Pete places a hand on Patrick’s arm, slowing him down— calming him. It works like a miracle.

It’s the arrow. It’s just the arrow.

“That story wasn’t real, Patrick. It was a myth,” he says. “You won’t lose anything, trust me.”

How does Pete hear every unspoken word? How does he know what to say and when to say it? How can he care so much for Patrick’s well-being? Why does he care at all?

It’s the arrow, Patrick knows. It’s all the work of that damn arrow, making his heart beat like a drum in his chest when Pete leans towards him. It’s the arrow that causes his breath to catch in his throat, something like want fluttering in his throat when his eyes drop down to Pete’s lips.

It’s just the arrow. 

So he can’t be at fault if he gives in.

The kiss catches them both off-guard, though it happens slowly— distance shutting like Patrick’s eyes as they fit together like an arrow into a bow. It’s every unspoken sentence Patrick’s already heard Pete say, every emotion he’s worked so hard to fight down. 

It’s everything he’s told himself he couldn’t— shouldn’t— want.

Pete lips are as soft as they look, parting beneath Patrick’s as they press together like waves on the shore. They still taste of the chocolate they’d been drinking, warmth invading Patrick’s being as his hands fist in Pete’s shirt, as he pulls him closer in a desperation he didn’t know he had. It’s pure, at first. Chaste and innocent and butterflies in Patrick’s stomach. It’s Patrick’s hands on Pete’s chest and Pete’s hands in Patrick’s hair, knocking his hat to the ground and begging for more.

More. 

More than chaste. More than pure. 

Hands on hips and tongues prodding lips apart. Breathless gasps and quiet groans, hidden in the back of a Starbucks where no one can see but anyone could hear. Pete runs his tongue across the seam of Patrick’s lips— demanding but gentle, insistent but sweet— and Patrick lets him in willingly.

It’s the arrow. It’s just the arrow.

His fingers dig into Pete’s shoulders, sparks firing behind his eyes when his tongue meets with Pete’s, as curious as the emotions he now feels. Pleading and wanting and needing and  _ receiving _ .

It’s the arrow.

Pete smiles against his lips.

It’s just the arrow.

But, for once, Patrick wishes it wasn’t.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Feeling simultaneously the best and worst he’s ever felt, Patrick walks into the Chokehold office the next day, feeling as exposed as he had the night before when Pete’s hands began sneaking beneath his shirt.

It’s not a feeling he’s used to as coworkers he hasn’t seen in a week or so stare. His insides turn and tear viciously at each other, competing to see who can make him sick first. Brendon doesn’t greet him and the raised eyebrow he gets is enough to have Patrick debate turning back around and running somewhere safe.

Running to Pete.

The thought of his boyf— target is enough to calm his nerves. It’s as if an immense slaughter had been undertaken in his mind as he walked in, and then the thought of Pete had cleaned up antiseptically afterward.

But he can’t go back to Pete. He knows this. He knows why he's here.

“Been a while,” Brendon says as Patrick walks past, nodding in recognition but not responding. He’s here for a reason. 

He’s here to talk to Vicky.

He walks to her office on autopilot, following the beacon on his frames telling him the quickest route to his boss. He can’t afford to think of what he’ll say or why he needs to say it. He knows one wrong emotion will have him backing out of all of this.

He can’t do that.

Not after yesterday.

Vicky’s alone when he walks in. She’s writing in a file, eyebrows furrowed and wings spread out behind her, on edge. Patrick pays no mind to her busy figure, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. 

“What the—” She looks up, face clearing when she recognizes Patrick. “Oh, hey. I was wondering when you’d show back up.”

Patrick’s still and silent, waiting as she frowns at him.

“Where’ve you been?”

Still silence. And then Patrick steps forward.

“There’s something I need to tell you. I should have told you earlier but I didn’t think it mattered and…” He stops, taking a steadying breath, and looks into her eyes. “I made a mistake with an arrow. I think I made myself fall in love with Pete.”

Vicky’s mouth drops a fraction of an inch— not the dramatic reaction Patrick had been expecting.

“I didn’t  _ mean  _ to,” he pleads anyway, walking to the place right before her desk. Vicky’s wings glimmer in the light— like Pete's eyes in the sun. His voices sounds choked at the thought. “I dropped the arrow and he was trying to help me up and I know I shouldn’t have been that close but I was  _ desperate  _ for this all to be over. And now I think Pete loves me and I think I hope he does because I— I don’t know, Vicky, I don’t know!”

Vicky’s silent for a long second, tapping her pen onto her desk.

“First, we call it an aid,” she says at last. “Second, is this, like, your way of telling me you need a blood test?”

Patrick’s heavy breaths pause long enough for him to ask, “What?”

Long golden wings shimmer as Vicky moves her chair back, opening a drawer and filing through papers. “A blood test. Come on, Stump, don’t tell me you thought you were the first Cupid to do this?”

Patrick had but he doesn’t consider it the greatest idea to admit this right now.

“I’m not a full Cupid,” he says instead. “My mom… She never tried to earn wings and my dad doesn’t even know about them. I didn’t know if that would… Dilute it.”

Vicky nods. 

“That’s understandable,” she says, passing the paper to Patrick with a sympathetic smile. He glances down, sighing at the medical request form. “I’ll admit I don’t know the answer to that but if you’re clear-headed enough to come to me, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. But, if you want to fill out the form, we can bring you in tomorrow morning to draw some blood. It’ll only take a few hours to assess whether or not anything’s messing with you. And, depending on the strength of the aid over you, we’ll be able to reverse engineer that magic and find you a cure. You’ll be fine.”

Patrick’s still staring at the page when Vicky’s done speaking, holding a pen out to him with a smile on her face. He doesn’t move at first, her words echoing through his head.

A cure. 

The arrow’s claimed a hold on his mind and heart, he knows. The arrow’s done its job and made him fall in love. 

Now Vicky’s saying there’s a cure.

He doesn't know why he can't smile at the news.

“Okay,” he says, taking the pen. “Sounds good.”

“You can fill it out in here. It’s all pretty much just legal stuff. Names and birth dates and consent for care,” Vicky says. “You good with all that?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, writing his name in the space on top. He swallows harshly as the form asks him a reason for this request. “I’m good.”

Vicky laughs, not unkindly but harsh enough Patrick jumps. “Jeez, Stump, calm down! You’re pale as a damn ghost. Chill, okay? You’re not gonna lose your wings over a simple mistake.”

Patrick’s smile is watery when he glances up. The wings. Right.

“Not that,” he says, writing the word  _ mistake  _ when asked for his reason. “I just don’t like needles.”

“Well,” Vicky says. “I wouldn’t worry about it. All worth it in the end when you get ahold of those wings, right?”

“The wings,” Patrick says, feeling as horrible and hopeful as ever when the image of such lovely things appear in his mind. Golden and beautiful and bright— just like Pete’s smile. “The wings. Right.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick takes a deep breath upon entering the coffee shop across Pete’s work— a coffee shop that’s become their own over time, one Patrick can’t think of without seeing fond smiles or careless laughter. He fills his lungs with the familiar air, washing out the sour dried stench the Cupid’s Clinic had left in them that morning.

Pete’s already at a table— their table, the one in the back with a perfect view of the entire shop— and two cups of coffee rest before him. 

Patrick doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile.

The appointment had been simpler than he’d expected, a few questions about his experiences with Pete so far and then a needle in his arm to extract a bit of blood. He’d answered every question honestly, blushing harder with each word that passed his lips, and winced when he saw his blood contained in a vial later. 

_ “We’ll tell you if we find anything _ ,” the doctor had said.  _ “It sounds possible you’ve been affected but don’t worry. We can fix that. In the meantime, stay away from this Pete fellow. If you have been affected, proximity can worsen the impact. Wait until we have the diagnosis.” _

Patrick had nodded. He’d agreed. He’d promised.

He’d opened his phone to answer a call from Pete before he was halfway out the door.

His logic makes sense as he greets Pete with a wide smile and warm embrace, laughing to himself as the red dot fills his glasses. Some day, he’ll think to ask one of the tech kids to take that off. He’s found better ways to find Pete whenever he wants.

There’s nothing wrong, he thinks, with meeting Pete. The doctor’s appointment had calmed his nerves, reminding him that all this is just an arrow’s trick, an illusion meant to distract him from his goals. None of this is real and he’ll be cured in no time. The doctors will find something— he doesn’t know what— and all of this will fade away.

So why not give in while he can? Make memories he can laugh about years from now when he’s flying with other Cupids.

“What’s up with your arm?” Pete asks, nodding towards the bandage still wrapped near his elbow when Patrick takes his jacket off. Patrick looks down at it with a hysterical bubble in his gut. 

What if he just explained it? He can already feel the words, can imagine saying  _ “I realized I love you and had a doctor find out how to make it stop” _ . Wouldn’t that make for a fun conversation?

Instead, he merely shrugs. “I had a blood test this morning. Nothing big.”

Nothing big, but Pete's eyes still double in size. “A blood test? What was it for? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Patrick says dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

Pete scoffs in disbelief. “Right, don’t worry about my boyfriend casually saying he needed a blood test today. Should you be out, right now? Do I need to get you some water or, like, a muffin or something? Are you gonna pass out on me?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the way he places his hand over Pete’s on the table, his own skin buzzing from the word ‘boyfriend’ on Pete’s lips.

“I’m fine. Trust me,” he says, voice soft. He urges his emotions to fill his voice, for his eyes to flood with the honesty he feels. He can’t tell Pete how Cupids heal quicker than humans, how little in this world can actually hurt him, but something in him yearns to comfort the man before him. Something aches to make that fear in his gaze go away.

Pete’s eyes are still wide as he watches Patrick. A moment passes and then he presses his lips against Patrick’s cheek.

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” he whispers. He brushes his lips against Patrick again, a smile in the shape. “Can’t have you getting hurt so close to Valentine’s Day. Think you can survive two more days?”

_ I hope so  _ rests against Patrick’s tongue but never has the chance to leave. His phone rings— a sound he never hears unless Pete’s on the other end— and he’s forced to pull away.

“I should get that,” he says. “It could be the doctor.”

Pete’s eyebrows furrow together. “So soon?”

Patrick only shrugs. He’s not the only Cupid to make a mistake but he is the first to do it so recently. He was the only one at the clinic today.

He stands, answering the phone with an apologetic smile at Pete, and hides himself in the hallway leading to the bathrooms, cast in dim lighting and dusty smells.

“Vicky?” He says as soon as the phone’s against his ear. 

“Yeah,” she says, a sigh in her tone. “How was the test today?”

“Good,” Patrick says, shifting his weight. “I gave them permission to pass the information along to you since I wouldn’t be in today. Do they have a medicine or something for it?”

“We’ll get to that later. It’s not important,” she says. Patrick tenses. So she knows. She knows the results, she knows how to fix this. But it’s not important?

“Well, then, why—”

“It’s about your target. Wentz,” she says. 

Patrick was tense before; now, he feels frozen.

“I ran some of his stats today while you were at the clinic,” she continues in the wake of Patrick’s silence. “He’s not an Open Pair like we thought. Well, not anymore, at least. Something’s happened. He’s an Unmatchable.”

It takes a moment for the words to process in Patrick’s mind.

“A… A what?”

“An Unmatchable,” Vicky repeats. “Someone whose circumstances create a problem for us. I don’t know why we didn’t see it before but all of Wentz’s match results have disappeared within the past week. Don’t consider it a fault on your part. There can be a handful of reasons for this. His match can be out of range for our office, already in a relationship or, worst case scenario, dead.”

Vicky pauses, letting out a long breath that sounds staticy over the phone.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time. We’ll pass Wentz’s file on to the higher ups and they’ll do what they see fit. And I’ll see to it we get you another target,” she promises. “An easy target. You deserve it, after all.”

“... Oh.”

Patrick should be glad, he knows this. Better than a cure, he can have Pete out of his life entirely. He won’t have to try to match him once this arrow’s magic is taken away. He can move onto a new target and have his wings.

He can have everything he’s worked for.

But…

“But I got matched with Pete,” he says. “Could that be—”

“No.”

Patrick pauses.

She doesn’t mean… She can’t mean…

“What?”

“Patrick, no,” Vicky says. “We ran the tests. I have the results. Your blood is love spell free.”

Patrick’s breath leaves him in one go, replaced with sparks of fear and thorns pressing panic into his lungs. Into his skin. Into his blood.

His blood.

His love spell free blood.

He shuts his eyes; he thinks of Pete.

“Patrick, did you understand that?”

Pete’s satin soft eyes. Pete’s rainstorm voice. Pete’s perfect kiss.

Patrick doesn’t understand anything.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick had wanted so badly to know there was a reason for his feelings. He had wanted so desperately to see proof his mistake could be fixed. He had wanted those golden wings.

So here he is, the night before Valentine’s Day, sitting at his desk after everyone else has gone home, searching for an answer to his question.

Not a question of how to reverse the arrow.

A question of what there would be to reverse.

It takes hours of searching, hours of begging Brendon to find some algorithm to get him insider information, information only people like Vicky and the higher-ups would have. He’s a Cupid and Cupids have secrets. But he doesn’t know all of them at all.

Hours after everyone’s left, when it’s late enough to call it Valentine’s Day itself, Patrick stumbles upon his answer.

The arrows were never meant to make someone fall in love. They never had the power to affect emotions so strongly. 

They make people want to fall in love.

It’s a small difference but it tears through Patrick’s mind all the same.

_ Most* of the world wants to fall in love _ , the site tells him— a shiny site with the Cupid seal at the top, addressed to the heads of every region’s Chokehold faction.  _ We don’t force them to do so; we help them realize this feeling. We show them the human desire to find love. And then we aid them in the confidence needed to act on it _ .

Patrick ignores the rest, flipping through the pages telling him about Special Cases and Open Pairs, Unmatchables and  _ there are those who do not feel _ …

He focuses only the  _ aid _ part, the realization he was supposed to feel. The acceptance that he wanted love. The  _ aid _ .

All the proof that the arrow didn’t work is right there.

He hadn’t wanted to fall in love when he first felt that arrow in his skin. He’s known, for years, it’s something he can’t have. He’d fought against all the thoughts telling him he had any sort of attraction towards Pete, fought against the feelings because they could all be blamed on that damn arrow. 

But his blood is clear.

Nothing came from that arrow.

Nothing made him feel or do anything. No great revelations or grand epiphanies as the site says he was supposed to have. No doctors lining up to give him a cure.

His blood is clear.

Every action, every emotion, ever word was his own.

And the same goes for Pete.

Patrick stares at meaningless words, giving up on understanding. Minutes or hours might pass.

Eventually, Vicky’s at his side. He’s not surprised that, after everyone else has left, she’s still here.

“I was hoping I’d find you,” she says, pulling Brendon’s chair free from where it’d been safely pushed in and sitting beside Patrick. “Everything okay?”

Patrick takes a breath. And then he turns to face her.

“You weren’t surprised when I told you about the arrow,” he says. Not condemning, not accusing. Mere observation and fact. “You knew.”

He’s amazed his voice doesn’t shake as he speaks, his hands leading him to believe he’d be more unstable.

Vicky sighs, fanning her wings out over the back of the chair. For once, Patrick only looks at her eyes and waits for the truth.

“I also knew it wouldn’t affect you. Part Cupid, full Cupid… It doesn’t matter. Your own magic was enough to fight it off.” She stops, playing with her hair as she thinks. “I expected you to think you were falling in love. I didn’t want you to but I knew it was a likelihood. What I didn’t expect was how fair it would get. Maybe if Pete wasn’t Unmatchable—”

“And that’s the part that makes no sense in this,” Patrick snaps, cheeks red as he stares at his desk. She already knows so there’s no use in pretending anymore. “There’s no way he’s Unmatchable! He’s handsome and nice and freaking genius with his words so someone out there—”

“Patrick. He’s not an Unmatchable because no one wants him,” Vicky says. “He’s Unmatchable because the arrow won’t work with him. He won’t want to fall in love. He won’t want anyone we throw at him because he already loves someone else”

Patrick knows it; Patrick’s known it. Still, his voice is hopeful when he speaks. “He loves someone?”

“You know he loves you.”

Patrick ducks his head to hide his grin and shoves his hands into his lap. 

_ He loves you _

He’s a Cupid. He’s an expert on falling in love. 

But hearing those three words show him what love is in a way no lesson ever could.

The only thing that stops him from running to Pete and holding him close is Vicky’s following statement.

“He loves you,” she says. “So we have to make him forget that.”

Patrick’s head snaps up and he looks to her with wide eyes. “What?”

“I asked one of the higher-ups to send this when I first found out. Just to be safe.” She digs around in her jacket pocket, unaware of Patrick’s shattering heart. What she reveals is a small handheld mirror, a compact, shut and as golden as the wings Patrick once dreamed of owning. Patrick reaches for it— to hide it, to smash it, to tear it pieces with his bare hands— but Vicky holds it out of reach.

“Careful!” She snaps. “It’s dangerous.

The tone strikes Patrick’s neck with the need to nod in deference to her authority, a feeling instilled in him when he first arrived. You can befriend your bosses, they told him. But never break their rules.

“This is crafted from Cupid’s— the first Cupid’s— armor. He wore it while performing his acts, meant to dazzle humans and distract any memories of him from forming. When it was first found, a committee of Cupids worked to fashion this. In case a human discovers the truth, we can change their memories.” She cradles the mirror in her hands, protecting it. “It’s magic has weakened over the years so it will only work tomorrow. Valentine’s Day and everyone believing in love… It’s enough to power this thing.”

“So what do you want me to do with it?” Patrick knows, oh god, he knows. 

Vicky looks up to him, no hint of friendship in her eyes.

“Get Pete to look in it,” she says. “He will forget everything about your time together and his love for you. So long as you never meet again, it’s the only way to assure his happy ending.”

Happy endings. Just like Pete’s story said. 

_ “It’s not impossible.” _

Patrick nods. “Okay.”

<><><> <><><> <><><>

They meet at the coffee shop for Valentine’s Day, the mirror a constant presence in Patrick’s pocket. The red dot on his glasses a heartbreaking reminder that once Pete’s free, once he goes from lover to target, that’s all Patrick will see next time they meet.

But, for now, they meet at the coffee shop. And Patrick doesn’t need to rush, right? He doesn’t need to force the mirror into his face the second they sit down to discuss their day. He can wait. Wait for somewhere safe. Wait for someplace empty.

He suggests they go to Pete’s place, a nice apartment a few minutes’ drive away. He’s been there before, that night after that first kiss. Nothing ever happened but they spoke as if they both hoped it would, curled together on the couch while Pete joked about how much more comfortable his bed is.

That time had been more suggestive; this time, when the door shuts behind them, it’s more intimate.

Patrick grabs Pete’s shirt as soon as he hears the door click shut, slamming him against the wall and pressing his lips to Pete’s. Pete returns the action with surprised fervor, grabbing onto Patrick’s hips with a grip Patrick hopes will bruise. Leave a mark, leave a reminder, leave proof that all of this is real.

But he’s a Cupid, Patrick thinks, blinking back tears waiting to fall. Nothing like that lasts forever.

Patrick steals Pete’s breath for as long as he can, tongues and lips a language they create together alone against this wall. He’s a car, driving for a place with golden wings and glory. Pete’s the tree he wants to crash against, wants to circle around with burning metal reformed into a capital C and nothing else. Leave the rest of him behind so the C is what they carve away. Pry him free from the wood, cut him apart until he has no choice. He won’t go; he can’t go.

He must.

Too soon, too late, Patrick pulls away from Pete, smiling because it’s all he knows how to do.

“I got you something,” he says, reaching into his pocket. He hopes Pete will keep his eyes on his hands. He doesn’t want him to see these tears. “I suck at Valentine’s but I…”

“I love it no matter what it is,” Pete exclaims, looking at Patrick with that stupid happiness he always wears when they’re together. “After you give yours, I’ll show you the gifts I got for you.”

Patrick freezes, hand wrapped around the mirror pulled halfway from his pocket. 

“You got me something?” He asks. He doesn’t know why it matters.

“Of course,” Pete says. “Only the best for my golden boy, after all.”

Only the best. His golden boy.

Of course.

Patrick falls apart. 

It’s all he knows how to do, after all.

“I can’t do it,” he breathes, tossing the mirror to the ground. “Pete, I can’t do it!”

Pete’s smile falls quicker than a breath. “Wait, you can’t do what? Patrick, this isn’t—”

“I don’t want to give you up!”

Tears like fire scorch Patrick’s cheeks as Pete looks on in confusion— painfully human confusion. His breath catches in his throat like a knot, tearing lose only with the one cry Patrick’s never had to say. “I love you too much”

And Pete smiles, oh, he smiles and it’s like the light of day. It’s a song at midnight, a note struck at just the right time. He smiles and Patrick can’t look at it a minute longer.

He grabs Pete’s arms again, holding tight because maybe  _ he  _ can leave the bruises,  _ he  _ can leave something to remember. He’s a Cupid and he’s supposed to make Pete forget but let him keep the feeling of Pete beneath his touch. Let Pete remember what it meant to be loved by a being that shouldn’t exist.

“Let’s break the rules and run away. You like that story, right? I’ll mess everything up to keep them away. I’ll be the Psyche to your Cupid, performing the impossible just to keep up together.” Patrick’s words escape in a rush, a forest fire desperate to burn. “I’ll break every rule. I will, Pete, I swear.”

Pete’s eyes dart around Patrick’s face, taking in the sweat and tears stuck to it. His lips part with a silent breath, his voice as lost as Patrick feels as he speaks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Patrick swallows down a greedy breath, his eyes watching that mirror on the floor.

He wants to watch it shatter.

“I’m a Cupid,” he says, his voice but a breath as he looks back into Pete’s eyes. “You have no reason to believe me but I swear it’s true. That thing with the bow and arrow? It’s me, Pete, it’s me. I was supposed to make you fall in love with someone else, anyone else, but I fell instead. I didn’t mean to but, god, Pete, I love you. And I won’t let them take that from me. They can’t have you. They can’t. They won’t.”

“We will.”

Vicky’s voice is a blizzard, chilling Patrick to the bone with little mercy left for what stands in its way. Vicky’s voice is a storm, tearing through all of Patrick’s dreams of happiness.

Vicky’s voice is far too close. 

She appears behind them, the open window she came through mocking him. Two others stand at her side, Cupids with wings larger than hers and even less sympathy in their eyes. 

Cupids meant as muscle, meant as guards, meant as soldiers. The appearance of archangels, missing only the swords at their hips.

Patrick’s reaction is to scream but the sound dies in his throat, along with his hope as Vicky lifts the mirror from the ground.

“I’m so sorry, Patrick. I am,” she says, the sad tone making Patrick sick. “But there are rules. I can’t break them anymore than you can. You think I got these wings by being nice? By giving in to what my emotions want? Maybe it’s because you’re part human but I had a feeling… I knew you wouldn’t be able to follow through.”

Too human to be a Cupid; too Cupid to be a human. 

Are his wings worth this?

Does he deserve them at all? 

Patrick’s world falls apart as the two men Vicky brought with her grab Pete, holding him in place with a touch that isn’t as gentle as it should be. And Patrick doesn’t do what he should because he doesn’t know what this is anymore. 

Vicky’s typing on her phone, indifferent to the maelstrom around her. 

“So, here are the options, Patrick. You use the mirror like we told you and get a new target. We’ll give you an easy one, one that will earn you your wings in no time. Or you refuse and we set your count back at zero and assign you to a different division in the company,” Vicky says. “Your call.”

His call.

His choice.

What are those wings worth?

Pete calls out his name as Vicky holds the mirror out to him, the cry like an arrow of its own into Patrick’s heart. Patrick wavers, bottom lip trembling, and he meets Vicky’s eyes as he lifts a hand.

A hand that reaches for his hat, throwing it to the ground. A hand that tears off those glasses and crashes them under his foot. A hand that peels his jacket off like a banana peel, revealing the vulnerabilities beneath.

“Those wings aren’t worth as much as you all make them out to be.”

Vicky frowns and the worst part is that it looks so real, looks so sad. Not disappointed or angered— sympathetic and regretful.

Because Patrick could never stop what happens next.

Vicky’s hand moves, the mirror still in it. 

And Patrick finally screams as she opens it in front of Pete.

A bright light, another cry for him, another reason to shed these tears. 

Patrick watches as Pete stares into the mirror helplessly, as recognition fades in his eyes. As he’s held in place, as Vicky lets it all happen with a mournful look.

Patrick’s voice aches when it’s over, when Pete goes limp and is set roughly onto the ground. A victim of circumstance; a prey to Patrick’s emotions. 

Patrick’s still screaming— no words, no names, only pure animalistic pain— when he runs to Pete’s side, falling to his knees because his legs won’t support him anymore. 

Vicky’s speaking to the other two, talking about gathering Patrick up and delivering him back to her office while she uses the mirror on people who saw them together. Innocent people, people like Hope. 

She’s turned away, her back to him. 

She’s not looking and Patrick— broken, shattered, sobbing Patrick— looks to the mirror she dropped next to Pete.

A horrible plan emerges from the depths of Patrick’s mind.

He’s not letting them have Pete. He won’t let them take that away. 

He won’t let them win.

Patrick’s hand wraps around the mirror, steady for once, and he revels in the coolness. He revels in everything he knows about it, everything he knows about this situation.

Pete won’t be matched again. He won’t be made a target. He’s an Unmatchable, impossible to hit because he’s already in love. He’s already in love with Patrick and love doesn’t fade as easily as memories might.

Patrick’s a Cupid. He’s an expert on love. 

And Patrick’s a human. He’s an expert on finding it and never letting go.

And he’ll find Pete.

He knows he will.

When the mirror opens, that light from before appears, blinding him and searing his mind.

When the mirror opens, Vicky screams his name with a horror he didn’t know existed. 

When the mirror opens, Patrick thinks only of everything he knows he’ll forget.

When the mirror opens, Patrick smiles.

This is what Pete is worth.

This and so much more.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick wakes with an obnoxious yawn. He debates staying in bed. The thought of more sleep and less work makes a compelling case but his supervisor— Hope, a stern girl with a nice smile— has already warned him about being late again. He groans.

He’s been working at her coffee shop for a year and she still treats him like a rookie. 

A year, Patrick thinks as he drags himself out of bed and gets ready for the day. 

A year since he woke up in the hospital— on Valentine’s Day, no less— with a concussion and no recollection of how he obtained it. A year since his mother tried to explain he had an accident at his last job— a job he can’t recall but was, apparently, working for some dating site called OkCupid— after quitting. A year since he met Hope after wandering into her place of work, feeling like he should be looking for something but not sure what. A side effect of the concussion and amnesia, the doctors assured him.

It was a cute shop, seated across a local newspaper, and had the coziest table in the back. Hope had been the one at the counter, a smile that suggested she recognized him. Patrick played along. Eventually, they were friends.

Eventually, Hope told him about the coffee shop  _ she  _ was opening, a few blocks away from his apartment, and how he should work with her.

And Patrick’s life has been the same since. A job offering the reprieve of coffee and snacks to those who wander in, a boss who meant well but scared him with her rules, a home that always felt empty.

A life that always felt like one thing was missing.

Patrick shoves these thoughts away and begins the trek to the bus stop. Hope sends him a message, reminding him about his shift— a message he replies to with a petty remark about how she’s cruel enough to make someone work on Valentine’s Day. 

_ Oh, whatever, _ Hope responds.  _ Not like you have a date anyway _ .

It’s a harmless joke between friends but something in Patrick’s chest aches as he puts the phone away and gets on the bus. 

Nothing extraordinary happens on the ride. Patrick sits in the back, watching as others file in and out. 

Sometime, during the third stop, a young college boy with big headphones and gum steps onto the bus. Another boy follows him, one with young brown eyes and hair a similar shade shoved away from his face. Something about him strikes Patrick as familiar but he ignores the feeling, intrigued as the boy yanks at the dial on his watch. In the midst of his actions— Patrick’s sure the time was off or something similar— the boy before him trips into the girl in the seat beside him. She shrieks at the action and moves to push him off.

Patrick watches as the other boy aims his watch at them, presses a button, and then falls into the seat in front of Patrick with a huff.

“Yeah, tell Asher I got them,” he says to himself, messing with his ear. “And tell her I hate this job. Promotion… yeah, right. I don’t know how Pat— How  _ he _ did it… Right. I know. I won’t mention him again.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and looks away. Must be one of those bluetooth phones or something. Always some new gadget out to confuse him.

He forgets about the strangeness in an instant, hurrying off the bus the second it stops. For a moment, he thinks he hears someone say his name but he’s sure he imagined it. He doesn’t know anyone on that bus.

He’s checking the time as he approaches the store, head down and focused on his phone. He’s a nearly late, courtesy of traffic— an excuse Hope won’t believe. He grabs the door and puts his phone in his pocket with more urgency. 

He’s not giving Hope the satisfaction of marking him late again.

Determined to be on time, Patrick throws the door open—

— and into the body of someone walking down the sidewalk.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Patrick says, letting go and falling to his knees beside the man who’d fallen. The sidewalk’s narrow, too close to the street, and, as Patrick tries to help the man sit up, his vision is only filled with the red lights of cars driving past.

He shakes his head without thinking— a nervous habit, he supposes— and then looks to the man before him.

He scans for bruises or cuts or broken bones, vaguely registering warm skin and dark hair— a soft smile and black clothes.

“Okay, you look fine but if you’re hurt, I can call someone? Can you feel all your limbs? Are you gonna sue me? Fuck, please don’t sue me, I just work at a coffee shop and—” And then Patrick sees his eyes. And his heart stops.

“Hey, I’m fine, don’t worry,” the man says, those gorgeous— gorgeous, warm, safe, familiar— brown eyes crinkling as he smiles. “I’m Pete, by the way.”

“Patrick.” He helps him to stand, incapable of looking away. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

Pete frowns and tilts his head to the side, Patrick blushing under his heavy gaze.

“No, I don’t think so.” Pete’s lips twist into a smile, one that has Patrick’s stomach flipping in ways it shouldn't. “I’d definitely remember someone as cute as you.”

“Whatever,” Patrick says. All other thought leaves his mind, all possible responses disappear. All except one. “I’m sorry for hitting you, though. Were you coming in? I could buy you a coffee. Or, um, get you one for free. I work here.”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “On Valentine’s Day? Kinda cheesy, don’t you think?”

“Oh, well, if you don’t want one,” Patrick says, cheeks heating up as they both walk into the building anyway. Hope stands at the counter, opening her mouth only to reshape it into a smirk.

“What’s Cupid doing here?” She asks. Pete laughs.

“Not here to write one of those articles, I assure you. Just checking out the place,” he says. Hope nods, suspicious, and looks to Patrick. Patrick, who does his best to look pleading. Thankfully, she catches on and lets him be, raising both hands to show he has ten minutes to get all his flirting done.

Not that he planned on flirting.

“Cupid?” He asks, turning to Pete. Pete laughs.

“I write love advice articles. It’s kind of my nickname,” he says. Something shudders down Patrick’s spine, something terribly familiar.

It’s been happening a lot these past few moments.

“Like the winged babies?” Patrick asks.

“Nah, I like to think more like Cupid and Psyche.” Pete falls into a chair, smiling as Patrick chooses the seat beside him. “Have you heard that story?”

“I don’t think so,” Patrick says, a smile permanently etched on his features. “Does it have a happy ending?”

Pete grins and leans forward.

“Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Heyy, huge kudos to you if you actually read all that. I didn't mean for it to be that long, I swear. I did, though, work hard on it so please leave a comment with your thoughts? 
> 
> Or come talk to me on tumblr! My url is hum-my-name! I'm not the best at making friends or conversation in general but I swear I try my best :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have a fantastic day/night!


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